Short Stories: Slash Series
by finalproblem
Summary: A collection of Sherlock Holmes one-shots, featuring both the Guy Ritchie and BBC versions of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. (Note: All stories here are SLASH.)
1. A Tiff Over Tea

**This story features Guy Ritchie's (_Sherlock Holmes_) versions of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and is set in the 1800s.**

* * *

"It is a matter of professional integrity," he said with a smirk.

"It is not," I retorted, leaning forward in my chair with a laugh. "You're not making any sense at all."

"Professional and intelligent men wishing to make a respectable impression should always have a good taste in tea," Holmes teased as he lit a cigarette with a small chuckle. I could see his mischievous grey eyes flick upward as he examined my amused face for a reaction.

I glanced at him from under the brim of my hat as I prodded the soggy tea leaves in the bottom of my teacup, watching him – and just as Holmes turned away, I picked up the little wad of greeneries in my cup and threw them at him.

They landed squarely on his shoe, and Holmes leaned over and glanced at them with raised eyebrows, then squinted up at me and said rather calmly, "How out of character, dearest Watson. Now you're just being silly."

I stared at him for a few moments, and he stared at me, and then we both broke out into laughter, as if there was nothing in the whole world that could spoil the moment.

Indeed, it was a perfect moment in a perfect day – Holmes was happy and talkative, newly reinvigorated from a recently-solved case, and I simply found joy in spending time with the man I loved.

With not a thing to fill the niches of the day, it appeared Holmes and I had nothing better to do with ourselves than flick bits of tea leaf at each other.

Which, for the moment, was perfectly fine with me.

"Now, look here," Holmes said disapprovingly as he inspected the teapot with a furrowed brow, "We are all out of tea. You've gone and drunk the last of it."

"Call Mrs. Hudson, then," I said simply. "I'm sure she would bring a bit more."

Holmes leaned forward in his chair and squinted at me, though he stayed silent, and I was sure he had already predicted the words that would come from my mouth.

I leaned forward as well, mimicking my companion, and I peered at Holmes as I began to say, "Earl Grey, with bergamot, a bit of sugar, and," I paused, watching him closely. "And vanil –"

"Absolutely not." Holmes interrupted, placing his hands on his knees in protest. "I do not understand why you find vanilla flavoring so appealing. It is vile."

"Holmes," I said matter-of-factly, "It is opinion. And my opinion is quite the opposite. Adding vanilla to virtually any type of tea, breakfast or afternoon, will improve the taste. I quite like vanilla."

"No, no." Holmes folded his arms. "It is my personal belief that the obvious repulsiveness of vanilla flavorings is quite factual, and should probably be common knowledge."

"Oh, come on," I said with a scoff, "You can't possibly bash vanilla when you're always adding _lemon_ flavoring to everything. Lemon, of all things! _That_ is what is vile."

"Lemon?" Holmes said in an offended tone. "Lemon is the best of tea flavors." After a pause, he continued, "And that is also factual."

I gave a loud sigh. "You are impossible."

"No," said he, "Just correct."

"Would you just go get some more damn tea, Holmes?" I said in a flat tone, _my_ arms now crossed.

He smiled. "Yes, of course."

He was away in an instant, off to locate Mrs. Hudson and ask for a bit more tea, and I stayed put in my arm-chair and stared lazily out the window.

_Doesn't like vanilla_, I thought. _He hardly drinks tea with vanilla anyhow, so he can't judge so harshly!_

Suddenly, a little idea popped into my mind, and I couldn't help the smile that crept up upon my face as the idea grew and unfolded until I couldn't resist at least attempting it.

Jumping from my chair, I hurried to the door and listened to see if Holmes was on his way back yet, and, upon hearing no sounds suggesting his coming, I rushed to an old chest-of-drawers that sat snugly against one wall.

Flinging open one of the drawers, I rummaged around until I found a small tin of sugar cubes that I had carefully hid from Holmes some weeks ago.

I popped open the tin and dropped several sugar cubes into my palm, which I then quickly hid inside my jacket-pocket, out of sight, putting the tin away before dashing back to my seat.

Holmes was back shortly, a fresh new pot of tea in his hands as he stepped through the door.

"You got Earl Grey, right, Holmes?" I asked, watching him cautiously as Holmes set the teapot down on the table.

"Ah, yes, of course," he said blandly. "I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

He poured both of us a cup, then took his tea and sipped it gingerly. "Lovely," he said with a wide smile. "A bit hot, perhaps you should let it cool? But very lovely indeed."

I glared at Holmes suspiciously for a moment, but eventually I peered down at my share of the hot drink and took a tender sip.

Instantly I spit the tea out and coughed, my face twisted into a scowl.

"Too hot?" Holmes asked, unable to keep the smile from his face. "I told you to let it cool."

"Damn it, Holmes!" I cried. "You and your bloody lemon-flavored tea! I told you, no lemon!"

His eyes twinkled mischievously.

"The least you could do," said I, after recovering from my slight outburst, "Is fetch me the paper. I've had enough of you for one day, so I'll bury myself in the news."

"Oh, come now, my dear Watson," he said. "Don't be so mean." Taking another sip of his tea, Holmes continued, "Where have you left the paper?"

"The step-ladder." I mumbled hotly.

Holmes set his tea down and wandered into the side room, in search of the newspaper, and I was quick to drop a few of my sugar cubes into his cup and the rest into the teapot, unbeknownst to my partner.

I sat back, my own eyes now twinkling with mischief. Holmes returned momentarily and tossed the paper into my lap.

"No new cases," he said, taking up his tea again. "No murders or anything exciting of the sort."

"Come now," I said, hiding my face with the newspaper as I scanned the events of the week. "You just finished up a case yesterday. Surely you are set for a while."

He made no response, and I waited ever-so-patiently for his verbal reaction, his face hidden from my view.

"You bastard," he said suddenly from behind my thin screen of newsprint, laughing and coughing all at once. I peered over the paper, the expression on his face similar to mine upon drinking the tea he had presented me with only minutes before. "Vanilla-flavored sugar cubes, am I right? Watson, you are a fiend."

I folded down the corner of the newspaper and smiled at him.

"Well, I presume you have also poisoned the entire batch with this foul substance, haven't you?"

My smile remained unchanged, and Holmes set his cup down.

"However," said he, "Though I am right in my assumption that the teapot is now plagued with vanilla, I am guessing," Holmes paused and, to my surprise, snatched my own teacup, "– that you did not think to infect your own portion."

I dropped my paper into my lap and watched as he took a drink from the steamy liquid of my teacup, to which he returned a little smile.

"Indeed," said he. "Lemon is indeed the very best of flavors."

Dropping my head and glowering at the carpet, I sighed and eventually rose from my seat and stared at dear Holmes.

I watched as he took another drink, then set it down and focused his excellent grey eyes on me. "You know, Watson," he said. "I think I might go out later this afternoon and purchase some more lemons for the tea. I really don't think we have enough."

This simple statement permitted me another sigh. "I'm not going to argue with you any more, Holmes," said I.

"And why is that, dear Watson?" my companion asked, his voice curious and awash with a mocking tone as he stood from his seat.

I paused and gave a huff, glancing at the ground in an attempt to hide the smile that had begun to creep up upon my face.

"Because, Holmes," said I, looking up, that happy smile still on my lips. "Because you're always going to win."

Holmes gave me a strange smile, and again his eyes were bright and shining with mischief – and those brilliant grey eyes of his rested upon my contented expression as he tilted his head for just a moment.

And then Sherlock Holmes suddenly crossed the room to me, took my face in his hands, and kissed me, _hard, _and the rush of passion that rose up between us was warm and exhilarating, as it always was.

When he finally pulled away, Holmes leaned in toward my ear, and I could feel the smile on his lips and his breath in my hair as he whispered, "You're right, dearest Watson."

And with one last amused glance at my contented and pleased features, Holmes turned, murmured something about vanilla and lemons, and then gave me one more dazzling smile before exiting the room, closing the door behind him with a little click.

* * *

A/N: This is one of my favorite stories that I've written. :3 It was a lot of fun to write, and I hope you enjoy the extreme fluff.

Drop me a review on what you thought - I would really appreciate it, and it means a lot to me!

_finalproblem_


	2. Let's Get Lost (Pt 1)

**This story features the BBC's (_Sherlock_) versions of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and is set in the 21st century.**

* * *

**_Getting Lost_**

It took me a very long while to realize. Too long. And when I did finally realize, I figured I was just insane. There was no other logical explanation.

It started out pretty slowly – At first, it was just that I couldn't get enough of his cases and all the excitement that went with them. I was about as eager for a new mystery as he was.

I wanted all my time to be spent with him, out tracking down criminals and unraveling complicated schemes and plots, and though I was too wrapped up at the time to notice, I had slowly began to drift away from Sarah. I started to decline her invitations to dinner or to visit, especially when he had a case going, and my visits and dates with her became more and more seldom, until one evening it suddenly struck me that I hadn't seen her for nearly two straight weeks.

And I wasn't really sure how to feel when I also came to recognize that I didn't really care.

Unfortunately for me, poor Sarah noticed my increasingly aloof habits toward her pretty quickly, which she was swift to pounce on.

She came to me, angry and upset, asking why I was ignoring her; I truthfully told her that her invitations always seemed to overlap with my excursions with him.

And, naturally, the first thing she asked me after that was if my time with him really meant more to me than my time with her – and my brain said, _Yeah, actually, it does._ The words out of my mouth, however, were simply, "I don't know."

I haven't seen her since, and I don't really feel a sense of closure – which bothers me a little – but really, I can't be bothered to pick up the phone and call her to talk. And I know I'm a jerk, but I'm usually just too busy with him to even think over what I could say to her.

Once, just once, when I was in bed and alone with my thoughts, I questioned about what had driven us apart, and that's really what sparked the beginning of this slow realization. It was like a little switch had been flicked on, somewhere deep in my mind, and the light slowly grew and washed over my brain and my thoughts until I fully came to understand.

Really, I thought, it was all because of Sherlock. And he hadn't done a single thing differently that would make me think this way. So, really, it was all because of _me._

The full realization came pretty quickly after that.

My constant obsession with accompanying him everywhere. My fascination with his odd habits and genius mind. My undying wish and hope that somehow, I was impressing him – and my wild strides to apply his brilliant method in such a way that he could applaud my efforts.

And the fact that, for some reason, I loved his arrogance and rude remarks – even the ones directed toward me. Everything he did, I deemed excellent.

When it struck me, I was sitting in the armchair, actually, and he was across from me on the couch, silent and brooding as always, garbed in his undershirt and dressing gown.

The recent events with Sarah and the fact that for whatever reason, I adored everything about the man across from me were swirling in my brain, so I was quiet. That's when he said, rather sleepily, "Stop all that thinking. You're really doing a lot of it, you know. Too much. Go get some tea, or something."

And, _finally,_ I realized.

I was completely in love with Sherlock Holmes.

So, soon after, I figured I was also entirely insane, and that there had to be something wrong with me, because who in their right mind would feel such a thing?

So I tried to give it up, forget about it; but as soon as the idea had taken root, it wasn't going to go away.

Besides, there was no point, really. It's not like Sherlock's cold and uncaring heart could ever return the feeling.

No. No way.

* * *

"John."

"What is it?"

Silence.

"What? Sherlock?"

Silence, once again – and I was busy, and everything, making toast. Did he really have to bother me now?

But still, I always dropped everything to see what it was that Sherlock wanted. I sighed and set down the jam jar before turning and peering out from behind the kitchen doorframe.

He was lying on the couch, turned away from me. Again, I called his name. "Sherlock?"

Again, he didn't respond.

Confused, now, I stepped into the room and went over to inspect him.

"Sherlock, what –"

He was asleep. Out cold. Completely.

I froze for a second, my brow furrowed. He _had_ called me, right? I wasn't just dreaming?

I stared at him for a few more seconds, watching his chest rise and fall, slow and soft, before I shook my head and began to head back to the kitchen.

"John."

Yes, that was definitely my name.

I turned once again, just to make sure he was really asleep – and, indeed he was. A little flicker of childish joy went through me when I did realize that he was saying my own name in his slumber.

"John," he said quietly, "Just tea."

I stared at him strangely, a smile on my face, but eventually I just chuckled and went back to the kitchen, where my poor toast was now cold. I popped another piece into the toaster, and within ten minutes I was in my armchair, munching away. When I was done, I put the plate into the kitchen sink and returned to the chair.

It wasn't long till Sherlock awoke, first peering over his shoulder at me, then turning around at sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

"You've been sleeping a while." I said.

Sherlock was silent at first, but after about a minute he cleared his throat and said in his usual quick manner, "Yes. Also, I'd like some toast, as well."

I gave him a look. "How did you know I'd had –"

"Crumbs," he said, waving his hand vaguely at his face, "Around your mouth. Now, are you going to get me that toast, or not?"

I just stared at him.

"You know, actually," Sherlock said, obviously annoyed at my blank stare, "Skip the toast. Just tea." He stood and headed to his laptop on the nearby desk.

"Just tea?" I said, a huge smile instantly plastered on my face.

"Yes. What?" Sherlock questioned, glancing at my silly grin.

"Nothing, nothing. I'll have you tea up and ready in a minute." I headed, once again, back to the kitchen, clicking on the stove and filling the tea kettle with water.

Then, from the other room, I heard Sherlock mumble, "Thank you."

_Thank you?_ I thought. _He never says thank you._

But, whatever. Even if he hadn't, I would have made the man tea anyway.

* * *

He'd been caseless for a week, and Sherlock Holmes without a case is about as dangerous as… Well, Sherlock Holmes without a case.

He was always shooting holes into that damn wall, much to Mrs. Hudson's utter despair. Filling the wall with holes, watching all the crap telly that I had foolishly introduced him too, and playing his violin seemed to be the only things he really did. Towards the beginning, at least.

When his boredom got worse, and Sherlock _still _had no case by the end of two weeks, he actually seemed to begin to want to spend time with _me_. He would ask if I'd like to go out and actually eat at a real restaurant, instead of the four-day-old fast food that was rotting away in the fridge. I always agreed, of course.

He had also offered to take a walk somewhere, like the park or just around our square of London. I was a bit bewildered – I guess he really must have been _bored_. Really bored. But, again, I couldn't resist accepting, every time – it wasn't like I had anything else to do.

At first, I thought he was actually just _being nice_ toward me, because I was sure he had noticed the fact that I never saw Sarah any more. He had probably deduced every last detail as to how we had split apart, anyway.

Recently, Sherlock had also been what seemed to be a bit _kinder_, even if only a little – he'd still demand food, though he said "Please," and "Thank you." He would praise me a bit higher when I managed to deduce something, even if it was only minor, and he would spend more time with me, accompanying me while I watched the telly, or something.

Later, though, I realized I was just being stupid. Sherlock Holmes was never really "nice" to anybody.

But after that thought left my brain, more dangerous ones filled my head. I interpreted everything he did the way that _I_ wanted – a weak attempt to fulfill my hopeless wish that he might possibly feel the same way I did about him.

I tried to stop my brain from twisting every thought around, but I couldn't help it.

Invitations to dinner? Dates. Walks around town? Time spent alone, together. The increasing kind words? He actually cares about me. Doesn't want me angry with him.

But it's not like I really tried too hard to stop myself, only a little – I liked to look at things that way. It's just that doing so put me in danger of accidentally doing or saying something I didn't mean to.

Because I could never tell him. He'd just laugh. "_Married to my work_," he'd said.

But it just went on this way, day after day, without any mention of a case, or a murder, or a theft, or anything. Bored Sherlock, and pitiful me – wallowing in kind words and pleasant invitations that really meant nothing more than what was on the surface.

I really didn't think things were going to change. We were just both waiting around for a mystery.

Then, one day, things actually got interesting. Very much so.

* * *

For me, the day could not have been more perfect. It was like a combination of everything Sherlock and I had been doing over the past few weeks all crammed into twenty-four brilliant hours.

The day stared off a little strange, but ended even more flawlessly than I could have ever hoped.

I woke up to find Sherlock standing over me, fully clothed, which I found to be a little odd, but he seemed to be in rather good spirits.

"Ah, you're finally awake," he said, briskly jumping from my bedside and to the window. "I say we go out for breakfast this morning. Problem?"

He turned and glanced at me for a response, eyes shining.

I stared at him, dressed in his usual long black coat and scarf, his hair as curly and perfect as always – and then there was _me_, sitting up in bed with messy hair and rumpled undershirt, and after a few seconds of just staring at Sherlock, practically glowing from the window's light, I just laughed.

He furrowed his brow. "What?"

I shook my head, rubbing my eyes with one hand as I said, "Nothing, Sherlock. Uh, yeah. I'm fine with going out. I've got to get dressed, though, first."

There was a bit of an awkward silence as he just looked at me, as if he didn't understand a word I had just said, and I was about to repeat myself when he quickly said, "Right," closing the curtains and exiting the room with a few swift strides.

We breakfasted at a nice coffee place not too far from Baker Street, and afterward wandered about the streets of London.

It was mostly I who listened and Sherlock who talked, going on and on about the increasingly not-so-recent lack of cases, murders, and thefts, and how did I feel about all this peace? Was I bored, too?

And he talked about Baker Street, and how he had begun a recent experiment on the kitchen table that involved fingernails, and did I mind? Well, it didn't matter anyway, because he wasn't going to relocate anyhow.

We strolled about, and his conversation was strange, but it was pleasant, and just before lunchtime Sherlock stopped on a street corner, watching for taxis.

"Well," he said, "I'm not used to sharing that flat with anyone else. And speaking of which, it's been quite a few months, so aren't you sick of me by now?" He gave me on of his strange half-smiles as he spoke.

I looked at him. "No, not at all. It's certainly more interesting than what I was doing before I met you, which was nothing. And anyway, I think you and your cases are brilliant, so I wouldn't dream of leaving, if that's what you're thinking."

He simply grinned at me, giving no other response to my small yet flattering description of my Baker Street life so far, and an instant later he was able to hail a taxi, as if he had let them all go by until I had finished what I had to say.

We ate at a restaurant for lunch too, and then returned home afterward to rest at Baker Street for the remainder of the day.

Late evening, we were sitting on the couch, watching some godawful TV show, and we were thoroughly interested in whatever the hell was going on, for lack of something better to do. Sherlock and I laughed and talked away about the characters and clichéd plot like there was absolutely nothing better in the entire world to do at that moment.

Finally, after the show was over, Sherlock leaned back and rubbed his face with a smile. "Why do we spend evenings watching that? Really."

I returned the smile, shaking my head. "Hell if I know."

He went silent, after that, and I leaned back on the couch as well, yawning from time to time. I could feel my eyelids drooping, and an hour or so passed, I suppose, before I realized I must have fallen asleep. It was around 8:00 PM when I felt a light tap on my arm. I awoke, a little dazed, and after he had noted my stirring, Sherlock sat up, slowly, and said my name, just once.

"John?"

I peered at him, my eyes sleepy. "Hmm?"

"Did you have a nice time today?"

I found the question to be _really_ peculiar, especially coming from him. "Uh, yeah."

"Let's go out someplace."

I turned stared at him, a look of bewilderment on my face. "What?"

"On a walk."

"What? When?"

"Now."

"But, it's so late. Why –"

But Sherlock turned and looked at me with such a peculiar expression, his blue eyes shining, and I looked down, mumbling, "Yeah, all right. Okay. Give me a minute."

I stepped into the bathroom and splashed a bit of water on my face to revive my sleepy brain, and by the time I had thrown on my jacket, Sherlock was already in his overcoat and scarf, looking as picturesque as ever.

We walked outside, and he hailed a cab in an instant. As we stepped inside, I said quietly, "I thought we were going for a, um, walk, or something?"

"We will soon, John." was the only answer I got in return.

So we rumbled along, the sky darkening with every minute, and my brain was full of questions, and I was just about to turn to Sherlock again to ask him where we were going, when he peered out the window and said to the driver, "Here is fine. Stop here."

Sherlock paid the fee, and I followed him out of the cab and onto the dark streets.

He was quick to find the backstreets, which were dark and shadowy, and I could barely see three feet in front of me.

"Sherlock," I said, out of breath, "Where _are_ we going? You haven't told me a thing. It's getting late, and I can barely see a thing. Do you think we should head back? Sherlock?"

He kept walking, though his pace was slower. I raised my voice a bit. "Sherlock? Where are we?"

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped, and I ran into him, my heart skipping a beat.

Giving a nervous cough, I repeated, again, "Sherlock! _Where are we?_"

He turned to me, and even in the sole source of light, the pale light of the full moon, I could see his eyes shining and a little smile on his lips. "I haven't a clue, John."

I was taken aback, my heart beating a little faster. "What? What do you mean, 'You haven't a clue.'? You know London's streets better than anyone!"

"No, I don't know this bit as well," he said vaguely, glancing at the moon, the soft light on his face.

I was silent, too confused to say anything else.

"Don't you see, John?" he whispered, his eyes still shining brilliantly. "We're lost in the middle of London, and not a soul knows where we are."

He stepped back and slid down the side of a building that was a few feet behind us, sitting at the base, gazing into the sky. He beckoned me to sit with him.

I didn't. For once, I didn't immediately do as he had told me. Though my heart was beating unusually fast as I said, "Sherlock! What the hell is going on? What are you doing? Why –"

He cut me off. "John."

I heaved a sigh, but turned and sat beside him.

I figured he wouldn't answer any of my questions, so I just sat with him, staring at the moon, and finally, after a while, I forgot about the fact that we were miles from home and we both had no idea where we were – and I just sat alone with Sherlock Holmes, and that was perfectly all right.

Time passed. However much, I had no notion.

We had both been perfectly still, admiring the beautiful moon, when I thought that now would be the perfect time to tell Sherlock Holmes what had virtually taken over my mind for the past month.

I tried to keep my voice steady as I said, very softly, "Sherlock. I, um, I've got something –"

But he turned and placed a gloved finger on my lips, saying quietly, "Do you, John?" and I could see the smile growing on his face as the shock slowly settled down over me.

His brilliantly blue eyes stared straight into my own dull grey ones, and I simply could not breathe – and an instant later, his lips were on mine, and there was no way on heaven, hell, or earth that I was going to pull away.

Because I was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

And he was in love with me.

And all the strain of keeping my adoration from him all these weeks melted away in that one moment, and at once my hands were in his hair, and although Sherlock was the first to pull away, much to my dismay, his mouth was soon by my ear, whispering quietly, "Of course, you do know, my dear John, that I've known exactly where we are this whole time?"

I gave a breathless laugh, still too overwhelmed to answer, my heart hammering in my ears.

Sherlock smiled, his breath on my neck as he whispered, "Let's go home now, shall we? We wouldn't want to be lost forever, here in the very middle of London."


	3. Let's Get Lost (Pt 2)

**This story features the BBC's (_Sherlock_) versions of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and is set in the 21st century.**

* * *

**_Being Found_**

"John, let me use your laptop."

"What? No."

"John."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced over at me, and I gave him a stern stare. "Don't make me do it," he said blithely.

I squirmed. "No, Sherlock, you can't have my laptop."

"Alright," Sherlock said, rising. "You made me."

He came around behind the back of my chair and set his head on my shoulder, wrapping his arms around my chest. Turning his head, Sherlock murmured into my ear.

"Please, John? Won't you let me use it?"

I could feel his breath in my hair. "No... Sherlock," I said, trying to ignore him. "No."

He wrapped his arms tighter and nuzzled my neck. "John…"

Why. Why was he so good.

"Fine," I said, shaking him off and standing. "Fine, alright, okay."

I saw the wry smile on his face as he swiveled round and crossed the room to sit in the desk, flipping open my laptop with one smooth motion.

I stood in the middle of the room and stared at Sherlock as he said nonchalantly, "I really don't know why you bother putting a password on this. It's really quite useless."

"But if I took it off, you would complain, because you like the challenge of trying to crack it."

"Well," Sherlock mused, "It's not really much of a challenge, but you're right."

He turned and flashed me a little smile, and I could feel my heart stutter. I looked down and laughed. "I'm making tea, so what sort would you like?"

"Really, John," Sherlock said as he messed about on my laptop, "Surely you know me well enough by now that you can deduce my favorite tea."

I shrugged. It was true.

"Lemon."

"With extra sugar, John. Do not forget the sugar."

I strolled into the kitchen with a smile. "I'm not going to forget," I called to him as I filled the kettle. "Surely you know me well enough by now that you can deduce that I'm not going to forget the things you love."

Sherlock smiled. It was true.

* * *

"I'm bored, John."

"That's nice."

It was a few days later, and Sherlock and I had nothing particularly engaging to do, so we had spent the majority of the day sitting around at Baker Street. I spent all of my time with Sherlock now, ever since the night we had gotten lost in the middle of London.

At the moment I was reading a rather intriguing novel, which I didn't do often, and I was enjoying it. Or, at least, I was trying to.

"John."

I ignored him.

"John, pass me my phone."

I sighed and glared at the ceiling. "Sherlock. I am trying to read."

"Phone."

I didn't even have to ask where it was.

I stood and tossed my book into the chair behind me before turning to Sherlock and reaching into the pocket of his robe.

Before I could even pull out his phone and give it to him, however, Sherlock grabbed me by the arms and tugged me into the chair with him, kissing me with a smirk on his face.

When he pulled away, his eyes shone with mischief. "You're too easy."

I looked away, perched on his lap, the smile on my face refusing to leave.

He pulled me against his chest and set his chin on top of my head. "I want something to do."

"I was reading." I said quietly.

"You're not helping."

"Can I get up now?"

"No."

"What do you want?"

"A challenge."

"A challenge," I repeated. "Well, there is something I could do."

Interested, Sherlock freed me from his arms. I stood and went for my laptop, flipping it open.

Sherlock's gaze followed me. He scoffed. "You're changing your password."

"Yep," I said, glaring determinedly at the screen. "And you'll have to guess it." I tapped the ENTER key loudly for emphasis as the new password was set. "And, we might as well keep this up so you'll leave me enough time to finish my book, so," I peered at him thoughtfully. "I'll time you to see how long it takes you to guess each one. And I'll give you subtle hints for each one as well. Say it was 'watermelon', or something, I'd have a watermelon slice for lunch. To give you an idea."

Sherlock stared at me, his eyes full of bemusement. He looked at me like I was a little kid trying to impress his parents with an adventure he had made up, but I knew that deep down, Sherlock just wanted a game, and mine would suffice.

* * *

He had gotten them all. Every one. And none of them had taken him longer than a week to crack. Six passwords, down the drain. It did keep him busy, yes – but secretly, or maybe not so secretly – I wanted to win. To find the password he couldn't get.

"Oh, by the way, I got the password you set last Tuesday. They're getting easier, John. Are you even trying?"

"Seriously?" I said, glaring at him.

"Oh, please. 'gobuythemilk'? After you left me thousands of notes about it and always complained about us being out, I figured it couldn't be anything else."

I sighed. "It really wouldn't kill you to go buy it yourself sometimes."

"Mmm," he mumbled blandly.

I huffed. "Fine. I'll change it again."

I set my laptop on the arm of the chair and went through the usual routine.

"There," I said, confirming the new password. "You won't get this one."

"Doubt it," Sherlock said, "I am a genius, you know."

I stood from the desk and walked over to where Sherlock was lying on the couch, kissing him with a sigh. "I know, Sherlock. I know."

* * *

The next day, I began my usual stream of hints for the current password.

I awoke, wrapped comfortably in the warm comforter of my bed, Sherlock just as snug beside me. I was off work today, so we had slept in, and I was rather hungry.

"Sherlock," I mumbled into my pillow. "Go make me some toast."

When he didn't respond, I opened an eye to see if he was awake. My heart skipped a beat in surprise when I saw his own eyes staring into my own as he lay on the pillow beside me.

"Since when do _you_ tell _me_ to make _you_ food?" he said, groggy.

I closed my eyes. "Just do it."

He buried his face into the pillow. "Mmmf."

"Please, Sherlock," I whined. "Jam in the morning is my favorite."

He was silent. I could hear my stomach growling.

Half an hour passed, and neither of us moved. I had begun to think Sherlock had fallen back asleep when he moved closer to me and wrapped his arms around me.

I pulled away. "No," I said, nearly falling out of bed as I got up and leaned against the stand by the wall. "Make me toast first."

Sherlock looked hurt as he glared at me from under the covers.

I smiled at him. "Jam in the morning. It's the best part of my day. C'mon, Sherlock. Two pieces of toast with some strawberry jam. That's all I ask."

He gave a loud annoyed sign. "Fine. I'll make you some damn toast."

"That's better," I said with a loud yawn, crawling back under the warm blanket.

Sherlock embraced me again. "Jam in the morning," he said quietly into my ear. "That's all?"

"That's all." I mumbled.

* * *

The next day, he told me he had it. Only took him one day.

"You were too _obvious_," he complained. "I knew it was 'jaminthemorning' by the second time you said it."

I was standing in the middle of the room, glaring at Sherlock. "What do you want me to do?" I asked him, irritated.

"Try harder," he said loudly, only frustrating me further.

I scrunched up my face in annoyance, giving him my best glare. I expected Sherlock to glare back, but he just laughed at looked at the ground. "Why are you being so adorable, John?"

My expression instantly turned to surprise, and I could feel my cheeks turn red. "All right, fine. You know what?"

I marched over to my laptop and punched in a new password, tapping the keys loudly with exasperation. "There. New password. Brand new. And I'll try not to be 'too obvious'."

"Well done," Sherlock chided. "I'm sure I won't get this one, considering I've done so horribly on the last passwords anyw–"

I gave him a quick kiss to shut him up, which worked.

* * *

"It's been two weeks!" I cried with happiness, ruffling Sherlock's hair to annoy him – which worked really well.

"I'm working on it!" he said, shooing me away with his hand. "Your 'clues' have been awful."

"Oh, it's the clues' fault now, hm?" I said, glowing with triumph. "Well, you must not be very observant, then. I give you clues for this one _every day_."

Sherlock leapt from his chair. "I'm not observant? _Me?!_" he cried, staring at me, very irritated.

"I suppose not," I said, shrugging.

"You do _not_ give me clues every day," he said, folding his arms.

"I _do,_" I said, folding my arms to mock him and standing across the room staring at Sherlock, trying to keep the smile from my face. "And besides, I shouldn't have to. I thought you were a genius."

"Fine," he snapped.

When he said nothing more, I rolled my eyes and said, "All right, here's a clue for you."

I walked right up to Sherlock and kissed him on the mouth, _hard._

"Was that good enough?" I asked him, watching his face carefully.

Sherlock looked at me. "Maybe."

I gestured to the laptop. "Go for it."

Sherlock glared at me the entire time he went to the desk and sat down. He opened the laptop and stared intently at the ENTER PASSWORD bar, the cursor blinking.

I stood beside him. "Remember," I said as he continued to stare at the screen. "I'm not trying to be _too_ obvious."

He looked at me. "So, in other words, your password is very obvious. The _most_ obvious, even."

I just smiled.

Sherlock looked back at the screen for a few seconds before typing in, very slowly, a password.

'PASSWORD ACCEPTED,' the screen displayed.

Sherlock looked up at me.

I was silent. He was, too, as he rose and embraced me.

Then, very quietly, Sherlock said, "I'm glad I decided to get us lost that night. I wasn't sure how to tell you. I wasn't sure how you would react. How could I?"

I continued to hold him in a hug, a little surprised at how quiet he had suddenly gotten. "Don't worry about that now, Sherlock," I said softly. "I reacted just the way you had hoped, right?"

He pulled away and gave me a strange little smile.

"So what's the password?" I asked, running my thumb across his cheek.

"'_johnlovessherlock'_," he said, barely audible.

"Told you I wouldn't try to be too obvious," I said gruffly, "And I didn't even have to try with the clues. I just had to be myself. Nothing out of the ordinary."

I gave him one more gentle kiss as the laptop screen flashed once more.

'PASSWORD ACCEPTED'

* * *

A/N: Nothing really significant happened in this story - I just wanted to write something cute. I hope it worked. :)

If you enjoyed this fic, please leave a review and let me know! I really love those.

_finalproblem_


	4. Warm Rain

**This story features Guy Ritchie's (_Sherlock Holmes_) versions of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and is set in the 1800s.**

* * *

It was just me, alone in the rain, soaked to the skin, hollow and empty.

Again, I had come to this place, against what I wanted – but it was also what I _had_ wanted, and I kept fulfilling that want, every day, and I hated myself for it, because it tore me apart. Day after day.

I was here, again. To my sides, behind me, and far off into the distance were the graves of those I did not care about. Only the stone with freshly disturbed ground before it mattered to me, and I traced the engraved letters with my fingertips, over and over, speaking each letter quietly, too scared to say the full name.

The name. It had meant a great deal to the world and to the police force of London, but it had meant so much more to me. It brought back far too many memories. So always, I would study each letter, trace each letter, one at a time, separately. The rain poured down the stone in fast, fierce streams.

I couldn't believe it was real – but how could it not be, when I had no other reason to be standing in a rainstorm, alone and unaccompanied by all but the angry clouds above me?

I ran my fingernails down my face in revisited agony as a crack of thunder pealed across the sky.

_Say it_, my mind whispered. _Accept what has come to pass._

I felt rain roll down my face; warm rain.

_Say it. Say his name. Tell yourself._

Every day, I came here. Every visit ended like this, with my brain forcing my lips to speak when my heart wanted only silence.

_Say it._

Again, streams of warm rain slid down my face, and somewhere, deep down, I knew that it really wasn't rain at all.

_Say it._

So I knelt, once again, to the ground, and traced the letters once more, my hands trembling as I spoke, so softly.

"Sherlock Holmes, dead one month, seven days – but still strong in the hearts and minds of those who loved him."

And then, despite the soft padding of the rain against the ground, there was a moment of calm as the thunder let up for just a few seconds, giving the damp ground around me time to take in my soft and wretched words. Deep into the ground, they were absorbed, down to the chilled bodies beneath, and I hoped that even in his life after, Sherlock Holmes could still perceive the despairing man above who, every day, whispered to the world and told it of his unmentioned love; what he had never told the man in the ground, and what he could tell no-one else.

"Goodbye again, my dearest Holmes," said I, as another crack of thunder rippled across the deepening grey clouds of the sorrowful sky.

I stood, ignoring the mud stains on my pants and gloves, and, taking my cane in one hand, I turned from the grave and hobbled away, my shoulder's pain now never-ceasing.

And though the rain still poured from the heavens, sleek and strong, I took the long way home, doing my best to disregard the pain in my shoulder. I always cherished the rain when I went out; the cold rain, icy and bitter, that kept the warm rain that slid down my cheeks a bit harder to remember.

* * *

A/N: This is very short, I know. But I have a bit of a writer's block and wanted to try and get out of it.

If you enjoyed this, leave me a review and tell me what you thought - I would really appreciate it, and it means a lot!

_finalproblem_


End file.
